


Dr. Watson's Early Evening Restorative

by tweedisgood



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Established Relationship, Frottage, Kissing, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 13:10:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7509661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tweedisgood/pseuds/tweedisgood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Making it all feel better after a long day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dr. Watson's Early Evening Restorative

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mistyzeo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/gifts).



“Utterly fagged out, if you must know. Pretty well the whole day spent doctoring people who ought to be their own physician. Headaches – shortsighted and won’t wear spectacles. Gout – drinks a pint of port wine and dines on chops every day. Pain in the side – tight-laced to a waist of sixteen inches. Broken toe – couldn’t be troubled to light a candle to go upstairs in the dark and fell over the cat. Gout again.”

John Watson is a true healer, with a great heart and a rich fund of sympathy for his fellow man. But there are days when he is frustrated in his art, feeling seedy, oppressed by sticky weather (it _was_ damnably close and hot, that particular August day) or – one must state plain facts – downright tetchy.

“And now _I_ have a stiff leg from sitting too long.”

Just as I opened my mouth with some wit about being his own physician by giving up doctoring he cut me off with a scowl. An olive branch lay fortunately to hand.

“Shall I ring Mrs Hudson for tea and sympathy, John?”

“Tea? I’d rather a brandy. As for sympathy, well I was rather hoping…”

He aimed a shy and charming smile in my direction and waggled his eyebrows.Ever since our intimate friendship took a turn for, well, the very intimate indeed, I have become something of an expert in Watsonian smiles. I make my bread and cheese – and the tobacco bill – by mastering the most arcane knowledge of crime and human folly. The Fortnum’s pickle on a silver fork, the Havana cigar that is more than mere sustenance, comes from the most specialised study of all – his moods, his desires, his pleasures – the contentment of a lover in which I have found, somewhat to my surprise, the summit of mine.

He wanted me to make the first move. I poured him his drink and set it down beside his chair with a theatrical sigh.

“You know, I have had quite the fatiguing day myself, doctor. Several chemical experiments needing the most delicate concentration. Settling the rent. Maintaining the Index. Explaining to Lestrade the salient features of the Preston’s Feather Beds fraud. All that, after being kept up half the night doing heaven knows what under a goose down quilt.”

We both knew precisely what.

“In fact, believe I shall go early to bed.”

By the time he slipped into my room on silent, stockinged feet, I had stripped to my skin, washed the day’s endeavours away and taken up my nightshirt.

“Magnif’cent. You. Naked. A marvel.”

He had had more than just the one brandy. There was a soft weight to his footstep; the sour-sweet tang of the grape press tinted his breath; a delicious clumsiness in the fingers that caught me by the nape of the neck, his whole frame stretched on tiptoe to kiss me soundly.

“Ah, John.”

Sense there was. Delighted sense, greedy and feasting: but if that was all, I should not sing of it. The flesh is weak in comparison to the spirit, the mind – even, I admit it, the heart. Loyalty and love, the running of years together, the touches that pierce the skin like a tattoo needle, and settling deep in our bones – this is taste, this is savour.

I have had fleeting lovers, hardly worth the name: an hour, a night, a summer weekend. Suitors, teasers, snatchers, voyeurs. None can match him, my spouse of Baker Street.

Ah, John.

Tender, sweet and tipsy, he stumbled with me to the bed, shedding half his clothes on the floor, tangling in and between the sheets and around and above me, by turns covering me and baring himself. I stilled his hand at his trouser buttons.

“Wait.”

Instant obedience was my reward. Not slavish, never that: not my Watson. As soldier and surgeon both, he knows command is three parts trust to one of authority. Why he trusts me, half-mad and wholly incorrigible as I am, is a blessed mystery into which I don’t enquire. I take it as gospel, just as I caught his hand by the wrist, then, and kissed a leisurely, feather trail from thumb pad to crook of elbow. Always the rough with the smooth, in love-making as in matrimony. Always mine, as I am his.

“Behold the conservation of energy.” I murmured. “I have no heat tonight but yours.”

“We’re done for, then. I’ve nothing.” He turned in my embrace. “Sleep with me?”

“The case is not so lost as all that. How if I merely kiss you until you faint?”

His answering smile was utterly filthy. It widened to a lecherous grin as he felt my prick stir against his bare belly.

“I’d rather shout.”

“As you wish.” 

Silence first, though, as I stopped his mouth and my own by their joining. A first kiss, soft, thrilling. A second, deeper, satisfying. The third, the spark of tinder. Four, kindling the hunger that burns. Kisses beyond counting, leaping flames in the hearth.

This fire I give myself to, in this fire I would gladly die. Watson’s hand around my cock was urging me on, coaxing my flesh to desperation, stroking me past reason to mindless rut. 

Ordinarily, let us be clear, I have no particular objection to rut. But I do not care to break a promise.

Attack as my defence, with my tongue teasing his bottom lip and a hard, squeezed handful of buttock making him start, he faltered and let go for the barest instant. In the next, I had rolled on top of him, pinning arms and legs spread-eagled, ruddy against white linens, struggling without conviction against my greater strength.

“Lie and let me.”

He sank back with a sigh, met my eyes square and nodded once, a salute. No hurry there for me to trace from collarbone to navel kiss by kiss, to test my teeth against his breast, smell fresh sweat on his skin. Stout wool and brass buttons barred my way to one prize, but everywhere was Watson, everywhere was gold for the taking. I could make him gasp by lighting on one part, then another unconnected spot with no warning. Holding him down hard, I made him pant with the thought that I might leave marks: marks he could wear under his clothes into the daylight, secrets the world has no right to and would not keep safe. And always I kept on kissing him, deep and slow, soft and ripe, from a tender and raging love.

He laboured as I had my way, as I rolled my hips over his again and again, showing no mercy, giving no quarter to the enemies of cloth and brass, using them for friction, for pressure, for sensations intense and exquisite.

He used all the air in great gulps, telling me with each breath there, more, yes, ah yes, oh Christ, Holmes, I can’t, I must… I will… I’m…so…oh…  
At the last, what deity there may be that watches over inverts, addicts and consulting detectives who are both, surely heard John Watson’s shout.  
What a sight. Head thrown back, hair a halo around his head on the pillow, eyes screwed shut, mouth slack-jawed and dry-lipped ‘til he licked away the last trace of me, broad chest heaving. I was quite up for some shouting myself, but I doubted he was quite up to making me, just then. Instead I settled myself beside him and shifted into a contented tangle of limbs.

“How are you, dearest fellow?”

He opened one eye. The corner of his mouth on the same side turned up.

“Limp in every sense. Like a damp rag, set out to dry.”

“While to the contrary, _I_ find myself altogether refreshed. I believe I shall get up and work on my new monograph.” 

His arms tightened around me and he fastened his teeth on my earlobe. “‘Concerning the _Dermestidae_ Family of Beetles’? You’ll do no such thing, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Then tomorrow morning, starting before dawn. You are a patent medicine all to yourself, doctor. Watson’s Early Evening Restorative.”

“You did the work. Without even…”

“Tut. The conservation of energy, remember. Heat cannot of itself pass from one body to a hotter body. I am a cold fish, as has been established; ergo the source must be you, or else we were acted on by forces additional to the system.”

“Could be love.”

“Hum. Yes. That’ll do it.”

We kissed.

**Author's Note:**

> For misty, who just wanted someone to write some Victorian H/W smut for her.


End file.
